Minute by Minute (Games & Diversions #3)

by Natalie E. Wrye

  Gotta be quick.

  The parking attendant here is a pain in my ass. Threatened to call a tow truck on me—or the cops—next time I parked in someone else’s reserved space.

  Of course, I never listen.

  I grab the cell phone I’ve managed to salvage from the rain with drenched hands.

  Griff:

  Checking in, bro. How was the meeting?

  Chris:

  Stressful.

  No shocker there.

  Chris:

  The editor-in-chief Mike Slovak wanted to talk about the files, HALF of which are missing.

  I couldn’t be completely honest, but the runaround ain’t gonna work when we meet with the editors on Thursday.

  Griff:

  Fuck. Well, can we push it back?

  Chris:

  That’d be a negative. They’re looking for answers now. And I can’t say I actually blame them.

  Griff…

  I can hear Chris’s plea even through text.

  Griff:

  Say no more. I’ll take care of it.

  Chris:

  Take care of it?

  Griff, in order to pull this off, I need you to take care of HER.

  My eyes narrow at the screen.

  Griff:

  HER?

  Chris:

  Don’t be coy.

  HER.

  Sabrina. The managing editor.

  If ever we needed some of your special Griff charm, it’s now.

  Sabrina. Fuck.

  I nearly drop my phone when the name registers to my scrambled brain.

  Sabrina Wellington.

  Or “Bri the Bimbo” as Foxx liked to call her.

  A busty strawberry-blonde from London, Sabrina would kick your teeth no sooner if you called her “Bri” than if you called her “bimbo.”

  With a hot-tempered tongue and an even hotter ass, Sabrina basically ruled over the travel magazine, Voyager, with an iron fist.

  She was as bright as she was lethal, as brilliant as she was ruthless…

  She could “bed and shred” with the best of them.

  And to add insult to injury… she’s wanted to fuck me since she first laid eyes on me.

  I never like to shit where I eat, never like to mix business with pleasure.

  Long ago, I could’ve given Sabrina the ride of her life, but my integrity mattered more to me than a one-night fling.

  And if all accounts that I’d heard of her were right… then Sabrina was as bitchy as she was beautiful.

  It wasn’t worth the risk.

  At least, it wasn’t back then…

  Truth be told, it still isn’t.

  By the time I make it back home, my thoughts are only on two things: the Voyager files… and the hardheaded blonde that left my house this morning.

  The hour is late, my head is hung low when I finally finish going over the files in my home office.

  My eyelids are reaching for the floor, and whatever will I had that drove me to the Tripping Out! office and back is definitely done.

  I haven’t slept well in days.

  I’ve been floating through the motions, operating somewhere between asleep and awake so much so that I have to clutch my old oak desk to ground myself—trying to regain some semblance of sense, composure—grasping for anything tangible.

  Anything that will pull me from this purgatory.

  It’s all just so damn confusing.

  Dreams. Reality.

  The line between them is constantly blurred. My nightmares have taken shape within my waking world, and the worst things I could have imagined have actually come true.

  The roles are switched—because my reality is a living nightmare, and my dreams have shifted into pure fantasy.

  Half-asleep at my desk, I have a vision of Elena walking in.

  Her tread is timid, her delicate feet bare. She rounds the corner into my line of sight, looking heaven-sent, and then she pauses—a white button down hanging loosely on her shoulders, providing a palm-wide peek of skin from neck to hip.

  The platinum waves of her hair are casually tossed back, and they emphasize the gold flecks in her eyes—flecks that seem to shimmer under the muted light of my amber desk lamp.

  She stands at the threshold of the office, watching… waiting for me to notice her.

  And I do—I can’t help but take her in with my eyes.

  The heels of her feet tap slowly against the wooden flooring of the office as she moves towards me.

  I inhale sharply when she sits abruptly in my lap, my body responding immediately upon impact.

  My aching cock grows hard and strong between her legs, and my hands start to itch, dying to touch every part of her scented skin.

  In my lap, Elena is not innocently cuddled up; she is straddling me… and the satin and lace of her panties plants itself firmly between my thighs, while each of her bare legs dangles seductively where the arm rests would normally be.

  Even fully clothed, I am rock solid, and Elena takes advantage of it, rubbing the top of her slit across my steel-colored slacks, lowering her pussy lips so that they sit on the length of me while the lips on her face lick the skin at my jaw.

  I groan, my fingertips trailing along the edge of Elena’s overexposed cleavage.

  She unbuttons my collar and shirtfront, biting my chest until her lips press against my abdomen.

  Through heavily hooded eyes, I watch her sexy little ass slowly slide backwards onto my knees, her tongue creating a wet trail as she continues to go lower.

  And lower.

  And lower…

  Just when the torture is too sweet, just when I don’t think I can take anymore… the doorbell rings and makes her disappear; it makes me shove the image of her back into the damning oblivion from which she emerged.

  In my office chair, I scramble for composure, mentally and physically gathering myself together, tucking in a hard-on that was the result of the realistic fantasy.

  I check my watch.

  Two o’clock in the morning? Who the fuck could be at my door?

  I leap from my office chair, the hard soles of my polished shoes echoing loudly over the hardwood floor.

  The wind and rain are still beating outside by the time I make it to the front door, and when I do, I lean into the peephole, tightening a fist at the thought of what I may see beyond it.

  I balk.

  Elena?

  I open the door… and there she is.

  The woman of my explicit wet dreams, looking very explicit—and very wet—on my front step in the pouring rain.

  The umbrella she carries isn’t large enough to cover a toddler let alone a curvaceously sculpted woman like her.

  Her hair is plastered to her forehead and neck in waves of gold, and the grey shirt she wears is stuck to her like a second skin, its bottom edge practically bleeding into the drenched denim at her hip.

  She holds her large black purse in her hand, chockfull of clothes she snatched just this morning from the suitcases left abandoned at my house earlier.

  She’s soaked from every angle, and just a minute ago, I was thinking of a few places I’d have no trouble soaking even further.

  She bites her lips, nearly shivering from the chilled spring rain.

  “Can I come in?” she asks softly… and I shift on my feet.

  Goddammit, the universe is an ironically funny son-of-a-bitch.

  I step to the side of the door, not saying a word.

  The bulge in my pants twitches as Elena pushes past me. She floats further into the depths of my darkened house and into the den.

  My traitorous cock has undermined me once again—the bastard…

  And I couldn’t say no if I goddamn tried.

  Snake Eyes

  Never play cat and mouse games if you're a mouse. –Don Addis

  Day 3—3:04AM

  Casa de Griffin

  ELENA

  “Did you really mean what you said about getting the person who did this?”<
br />
  Elena rubs her hands near the fire I’ve set, sliding her curvaceous bottom towards the fireplace, as she sits, legs crossed, on the grey rug in my den.

  Her clothes are not as soaked as they once were, and though it hasn’t been more than ten minutes since I sparked the blaze, she is half-dry, her blonde hair no longer dripping onto the floor.

  Or onto my clothes—which have long-since replaced her own sopping ones.

  After one shower and one hour of story-telling about what happened to her tonight, she is ten times more relaxed than she was when she first walked in.

  But now, after her seemingly innocent question, the tension is back.

  I can feel it.

  She glances at me with a serious face, her tiny hands clutching together the buttons of the white shirtfront she wears.

  The blaze is reflected in her blue eyes, and they sparkle at me. Her dilated pupils are full of expectation, full of hope, and suddenly I feel an urge to give her everything she needs.

  “The person who did what?” I ask.

  “This. The crash… Ana.”

  I don’t even blink at Elena.

  “Every word.”

  She smiles, but it’s not one full of good nature. More like relief.

  She scoots towards the armchair in which I sit, and instead of me watching her, we trade places, and I can tell that Elena is observing me with keener eyes.

  At my feet, she leans her body into me, and my breathing grows shallow with anticipation.

  “Good,” she mutters quietly, looking up at me. “Because I’m going to help you.”

  I scoff, not believing a word I’m hearing.

  “You are?”

  “Yes,” she responds.

  “You are?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I stand, walking away from the fireplace to think.

  “I can’t believe what you’re saying.”

  Elena stands with me.

  “Why not?” she asks. “I have every reason to work with you on this.”

  “Every reason except that we can’t work together.”

  “Why can’t we?”

  I whirl towards Elena, locking my eyes on her face in the dimly lit room.

  “Have you forgotten that little engagement party that nearly blew up in our faces?”

  Elena bites her lip, nearly squirming on her feet, and the nervous gesture makes me want to kiss her.

  Lick her even… but to allow her to get involved in some psychopath’s scheme?

  Not a fucking chance.

  I cross the den, heading into the kitchen with a stony determination.

  I fill a nearby glass with water, almost wishing that it were vodka.

  Elena starts to speak from behind me, having followed me across the house.

  “I admit it…” she comments over my shoulder. “The process wasn’t seamless… but the results were.”

  She circles my body suddenly, planting her feet right in front of me, dragging my eyes back to her face.

  “Nothing is ever as good as it can be when we work together. And despite our infinite differences… I know that you know this.”

  Elena pokes a finger at my chest, keeping it there.

  The look in her eyes is dogged, and the set of her jaw is resolute.

  This is the hard-nosed, dogmatic Elena I’ve come to know… and in this instant, I know that nothing I say will change her mind.

  “Face it, Lukas. We work well together not in spite of our differences, but because of them.”

  She laughs dryly, growing sheepish.

  “Although, it nearly pains me to admit it.”

  Her cheeks grow inflamed, and the blush on her face does something to me.

  I have no choice but to concede the point.

  Because she’s right.

  Elena brings structure to my spontaneity, and I bring impulse to her order.

  Nothing about our pairing should make sense, and yet it does.

  What we accomplished with Kat and Foxx’s engagement party was nothing short of a miracle—damn near magic considering the epic battles that Elena and I once fought.

  But ultimately we both wound up winning the war—in that characteristically fiery fashion that two hotheads like us had grown accustomed to—that delectably explosive fashion where bodies became one and the sounds of two voices were unified in ecstasy.

  The memory alone is enough to make me grow hard again.

  With that finale in the Hyatt, every fight—every clash that Elena and I had—was worth it.

  I can only hope that this new war will end the same.

  Even though I know that it shouldn’t…

  I make a decision right then and there.

  “Yeah,” I forfeit to Elena, sighing hesitantly. “Let’s do it.”

  A smile starts to form in the corners of her mouth.

  “But,” I interject before she can get too excited, “we’re going to do things my way.

  “The engagement party was more your thing. This is more mine. I’ve got a private investigator on it, and he and I will be doing the bulk of the investigating—figuring this out. Starting with Gregory Sears…”

  “But…”

  “If you want to stay in the loop—and I’m assuming you do…”

  Elena nods emphatically.

  “You will listen to whatever my PI, Henry, and I have to say. Don’t go chasing after hunches. Don’t interact with Sears. And for God’s sake, never try to take matters into your own hands.

  “We’re not cops, ok? If this shit hits the fan, we’ll be on our own. And it’d be better if we come out alive…”

  The nod Elena gives me this time is more rigid, more curt.

  If she’s scared at all, she doesn’t show it. And my respect for her increases by that much more.

  She clasps her hands together.

  “Great,” she declares, walking towards me. “So, what’s the first step?”

  “The first step…” I approach within arm’s length of Elena, tempted to touch her hair—close enough to actually do it.

  I hesitate, pulling out my cell phone instead.

  “… is sleep.” I turn the cell towards her to show the time. “It’s three o’clock in the morning, and we need to be sharp if we’re going to go, uh… hunting.”

  I turn on my heel, heading towards the stairs.

  “I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to come, too.”

  I nearly stop, smiling.

  “Doesn’t have to be my bed, though I wouldn’t stop you if it were. Pick any bedroom you’d like.”

  I reach the staircase.

  “Wait,” Elena calls after me. “What about Sears?”

  “I’ll handle Sears.”

  “But what if he gets away?”

  “He won’t.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  “But how?” Elena cries louder this time.

  I stop climbing the stairs.

  I can hear the desperation in her voice.

  “Because, my faithless Elena….” I mutter, turning slowly to meet her eye.

  “I know where he’s staying.”

  ***

  ELENA

  I wake up in Lukas’s bed.

  Well, Lukas’s guest bed.

  It’s a California King, replete with devilishly red comforters.

  The pillows, as in normal Lukas Griffin custom, are made of something more luxurious than cotton, and the sheets are just as expectedly flawless—soft, blood-colored and extremely decadent.

  I’d make love to this bed.

  Hell, I’ve already given the pillows the most head they’ve probably ever seen in this house.

  The mattress may be twice as large as the bed I had at Kat’s house, and still it is Oompa Loompa-sized compared to the juggernaut that is Lukas’s bed.

  Huh. Funny.

  That is exactly how this bed makes me feel.

  Like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory in a “world of pure imag
ination.”

  Stumbling around in a fantasy/nightmare from which there is no waking. A place of wonder and mystique not meant for innocent, uncultured, middle class, wannabe-world class dancers like me.

  If only it could last…

  But that’s just the thing.

  With Lukas… nothing can.

  He isn’t built that way. And I was stupid enough just days ago to think that I was.

  I fling the covers to the side, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. As soon as my feet touch the hardwood floor, I feel a familiar anticipation—the same mix of dread and excitement that accompanied me on the first walk to Lukas’s hotel room.

  Only this time, there is no hotel.

  This is Lukas’s house.

  No witnesses. No excuses.

  And I can’t tell if that thought fills me with distress or interest.

  Conflicted, I float in a time-less, sensation-less haze through Lukas’s hallways.

  I don’t even realize that I am standing at his door until he looks up at me.

  His shirt is unbuttoned—his collar up.

  Silver shiny cufflinks are fastened at his wrists, and they flash as they move beneath his heavy hands and quick fingers—large, perfect fingers that pull towards the tiny buttons on his white collared shirt.

  He presses each button into its designated hole, and I watch as Lukas skillfully slips them through, cinching each clasp over his impossibly chiseled torso—slowly closing the curtain on what is one of the greatest displays I have ever seen.

  Because this man’s body is a work of art.

  He is art…

  And everything he does bears the mark of his effortless perfection, an inherent flawlessness that exudes from within, transforming the simple to the extraordinary with just his touch.

  Amazing—how the simple act of dressing himself is a spectacle in and of itself.

  It is just like when I watched him on the computer at Ana’s graduation party.

  Same confidence. Same poise.

  I am a captivated spectator, absorbed by the show. I don’t blink for fear of missing a second… until he notices me.

  “Sorry…” I say. “I don’t know what I was thinking… I just assumed… I should have checked…”